Read part one.

My mother brought seven people to the next Thanksgiving dinner. We actually needed to add a second table that extended into the living room just to accommodate these newcomers. Each was in his or her early seventies, about my mother’s age.

“So, how do you know Mom?” Peg asked as she passed the stuffing to an elderly woman on her left.

“Well, the three of us were good friends back in college,” the woman said, indicating two other women across the table.

“And Ellen and I were in a bowling league with your parents a long, long time ago,” said a bald man next to me, while placing his frail hand over his wife’s.

A small, hunched over woman looked up, realizing it was her turn to explain her presence. “You know, Susan, I don’t think I’ve seen you in fifty-two years,” she said and smiled over at my mother. “I’m so glad you asked me here. I would have probably just ended up at Boston Market like last year.” She chuckled. I saw myself in thirty years, alone at a fast food restaurant, and shot a glance at Peg. She must have known what I was thinking because she mouthed the words, “Don’t worry.”

“Your mother has really inspired me,” one of the college friends said to my sister and me. “I’ve started taking dance lessons. Samba!” The whole table cracked up. Peg rolled her eyes at me.

The wife of the bowling partner chimed in next. “Sue, you are just so brave.” Peg squeezed my leg under the table. The bowling partner’s wife turned toward Peg. “I used to be so afraid of, well, I guess, how it was going to happen, but if your mother can be this rational about the whole thing, the end can’t be that bad, can it?”

The table was silent just long enough for everyone to hear me mutter “uh oh” under my breath.

“Yes, it can!” Peg shouted. “My mother seems to have forgotten how bad it was for my dad at the end. How bad it was for us at the end. How bad — ”

“Peg!” I jumped up from my chair and grabbed her arm, dragging her into the kitchen. After excusing herself from the table, Mom joined us.

“Mom, why did you ask these people to come tonight?”

“Yeah, Mom. Please tell us — ”

“Enough, Peg.” I interrupted Peg again. “Mom. Why?”

“Why? They’re my friends,” she said.

“But why tonight? Why all at once?” I asked. I knew the answer.

“If I don’t see them now, when will I?”

I’d learned by then not to bother arguing with her about this, but I wanted to know one more thing. “How do you know Marty?” He was an elderly man who had been at the table. He was the only one yet to explain why he had joined us for dinner.

“Oh, Marty,” Mom said, smiling like a teenager. “I met him on my cruise to Alaska. Isn’t he nice? Do you like him?”

“What?” Peg asked. “Are you dating?”

“Well, never mind. It’s just for fun anyway,” Mom said.

“Dad’s middle name was Martin. Isn’t that quite a coincidence?” I asked.

“There are no coincidences. Just life. Grab those saucers, will you?” She glided over to the door and pushed it open with her hip. She seemed to be on the verge of humming.

Marty drove Mom home that night.

After New Year’s, Mom asked Peg, Peg’s children, and me to come over to her house one evening. When we got there, our lawyer, Mr. Swanson, was sitting in Dad’s armchair. I hadn’t seen him since we met to discuss Dad’s will. A cheese platter was laid out on the coffee table. I sat down but knew that I wouldn’t be sitting for long.

“Mom,” Peg began, “what is he doing here?”

“Mr. Swanson, would you like to answer that?” Mom turned to face the lawyer. We all followed suit.

“Well, Mrs. Reich asked me to come to go over her, uh, final wishes with you all,” Mr. Swanson said. “I know it’s a little unorthodox but –”

“A little!” I shot out of my chair. I had been right. “Mom, what is this? What are you doing?”

“I wanted to see you all be happy. Why wait until after I’m dead to give it away? Won’t you let me enjoy this in my last few months? April 17th is coming soon.”

“Stop it, Mom!” This time, Peg stood. “Why are you doing this?” Peg began to breathe heavily and soon, the heavy breaths turned into a sob. Andrew and Elizabeth started whimpering on the couch from which their mother had just leapt. “Oh, great. And in front of the kids,” Peg said.

We yelled some more. Doors slammed. Cars were started. I can only imagine Mr. Swanson sitting, stunned, across from my mother in that living room. She was probably just smiling and sighing as she cleaned up.

Three weeks later, I got a phone call. When the man on the line said that he was the owner of Sheffler Brothers Funeral Home, my mind leapt to a thousand places. Was Mom dead? Or was there just a problem with the bills from Dad’s funeral?

“Uh, Mr. Reich, your mother had left your number as a contact,” the owner said, “and I’m just calling to make sure that everything was all right. Your mother came into the funeral home and asked me if she could reserve the largest room for April 21st. Generally, I don’t rent out rooms at my funeral home two months in advance, but she insisted.”

“No. No, you can cancel the reservation.” I couldn’t believe that I’d actually referred to it as a “reservation.”

I hung up the phone and dialed my mother’s number. She simply told me that she was trying to make the whole process easier on me and Peg. She said that come April 17th, we’d have other things to worry about. “By April 21st,” she said, “there will have been plenty of time to get everything in order. And besides, it’s an astrologically perfect day for a funeral.” She went on to describe her trip to pick out her own coffin. She had lain in each of them and picked out the color of the lining and the softness of the pillow. “I’ll be dead, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be entitled to a little comfort.”